


Judge Not

by Roga



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-17
Updated: 2009-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randy, Paula and Simon secretly go to watch the Idols Live final concert in Manchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Judge Not

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, don't judge me (ha.) (not.) Written on the day after the season 8 summer tour ended in 2009.

On the day they announce that Ellen Degeneres is going to be the new her, Paula gets a phone call from Randy. "Yo, check it."

"Check what?" she asks.

"Your email," he says cryptically, sounding pleased with himself.

There's a new message in her inbox—an e-ticket to Manchester Airport, dated September 15th.

"Randy," she calls him back with exasperation, "This is in less than a week."

"Come on. Farewell party, Simon's gonna be there. One last hurrah for the original trio," he tries to persuade her. "It's tradition." And Paula's might still be a little sore over the way things went down, but, she realizes with surprise — she also misses them.

She meets them outside the Verizon Wireless Center in Manchester five days later, decked in a long black overcoat and a large purple hat. "You look like you're going to a funeral," Simon remarks when he sees her, looking as bleak as the stormy English weather he probably flew here to escape.

"It's called being clandestine." Paula looks at his black v-necked tee pointedly. "I see you've done your best to stay unrecognizable."

"Guys," Randy says, "please don't make me be your chaperon tonight."

They sneak in just before the show starts, hiding themselves in a shadowy corner off the right side of the stage, drawing as little attention to themselves as possible. "You do realize wearing that hat indoors is more conspicuous than not," Simon says with a raised eyebrow, after which Paula keeps the hat on just to spite him.

But she forgets all about Simon soon enough, because it's an amazing show. No, not amazing, it's – it's – there are no words for how Paula feels, but it makes her heart pound and her breath hitch and her chest expand with love, love, so much love, the same love that each of these boys and girls are showering the audience with, and the audience is containing it and reflecting it and giving it all back.

"Oh, _look_ at them," she breathes, clutching Randy's sleeve, and she tries to take it in, be in the moment. Michael's voice searing through the stadium, Lil's joy and presence on a big stage finally fit for her, Megan's free-spirited beauty and her voice, Anoop's raw passion, and Scott and Matt's majestic fingers playing music like it's liquid, like a gushing river of notes crashing and cascading over one another, superlatives upon superlatives that she wishes she could articulate out loud but she's too captivated by their performances to even speak.

She's still reeling by the time intermission comes around, and Randy steers them outside because Simon needs to smoke. "They have come a long way," Randy says appreciatively, leaning against an out-of-the-way wall. "For real, that group right there, one of the best we've ever had."

"They are," Paula says, takes a deep, steadying breath, " _amazing_."

Simon takes a drag from his cigarette, and lets out a non-committal sound.

"Oh, come on, man, you're actually doing this now?" Randy asks with disbelief. Except it's not really disbelief, because it's Simon, and even though he makes her want to hit him, Paula can't really say she's surprised.

"Well of course they've improved," Simon reasons, sounding bored. "This would be a very bad show and we would be very bad judges if we didn't filter the good contestants from the rabble. But is the ability to improve over the course of two months of performing really the standard by which we're judging our top ten now? Because if it is, we need new standards."

"We're not here to _judge_ them," Paula emphasizes, willing herself to stay calm.

Simon doesn't bat an eye. "Well, obviously _you're_ not."

This time she does shove him lightly, but Simon merely smirks at her. "God, you're a jerk," she mutters, poking him in the shoulder. "You know what, I'm not going to let you spoil this show for me."

"Good for you." He tosses the cigarette stub on the pavement and scuffs it with his heel, then sighs with annoyance. "She really shouldn't have changed her outfit."

Paula blinks. "Who, Megan? You're kidding me."

"With her voice and her looks, she needs to market herself in a very specific way if she ever wants to make it in this indus—"

"Yo, Simon," Randy cuts in, "I'm happy for you and I'mma let you finish, but just so you know, Kanye's still gonna be more full of shit than you. No matter how hard you try."

Paula doesn't even try to stop her bubbling laughter, and she meets Randy's high-five as Simon rolls his eyes. "Come on," she says, starting to lead the way back inside. "I don't plan on missing a second of Allison Iraheta."

The second act is even more incredible than the first, and Paula just, _oh_. Allison's voice, her _energy_ , it's the stuff of legend, and Paula feels— _privileged_ —to have been a part of that, this amazing performer who's only seventeen and ready to conquer the world, and then Danny, dear, dear Danny who moves her to tears with his heartfelt emotion, and by the time Adam starts performing she's nearly quivering, too wired with emotion to sit still, so she gets up with the rest of the crowd and lets his voice put a spell on her—Adam, Adam, _Adam_ , who performs like earth and water and air and fire and electricity all together, and the crowd explodes and the stage explodes and it's everything a rock concert should be. By the end of _Slow Ride_ she has to hold herself back from rushing backstage and embracing them both, and then Adam rips the stadium to pieces singing Bowie—

—and it's the last countdown, boom-K boom-R boom-I boom-S, and Kris is lifted onstage with a ridiculous boa on the mic and he starts singing—holds his opening note forever and ever and it fills her heart, and the crowd is screaming for more, more, more, just like she always knew they would, and Kris makes music like he's breathing. She's not paying any attention to Randy or Simon, fully focused on the stage, and as the show goes on Kris discovers all the surprises his fellow Idols have left him on stage along with the rest of the audience, with joyous delight and humbleness, and there is so much friendship there, so much love, that it make her heart ache. "I'm gonna miss you guys when you're gone," Kris sings, and it's earnest and painful and it makes her dig her fingernails into Randy's palm until he winces, but doesn't let go of her grip.

And suddenly it's the finale, and it feels just like it did at that finale, then—excitement and loss, a slow build up complete with the realization that they're _all_ winners, that something great and good is looming up ahead. It builds up and up and up, and when Kris and Adam finally appear and Kris is swimming in Adam's jacket Paula's screaming like a madwoman with all the fans, feeling Randy's deep rumbled laughter warm at her side. And then it's silly string and utter pandemonium onstage, boas and feathers and bras, and she's never seen anything like it; Allison's gripping Megan like a lifesaver and Paula wants to scoop her into a hug, wants to scoop them all into her embrace, except she's not really their mother, and this is their moment, this is all theirs. Adam and Kris look at one another, Matt and Anoop and Michael and everyone, and they're all victorious.

She's breathless and teary and probably a mess when they step back outside, and she gulps in the fresh air like it will save her life. "That was," she starts, and trails off helplessly. Her hat had disappeared somewhere in the mob that swamped the stage, but a black and white boa is wrapped around her shoulders to make up for it.

"That was bringing the house down," Randy says, grinning, as they start walking away from the arena in search of a bar, she hopes, because she really needs a drink.

"Simon, did you _see_ them? Did you hear?"

She doesn't even know why it's so important to her that he acknowledge it, but when Simon only replies, "It was a good performance," it is _frustrating_.

"Dude," Randy says, "you have to admit they owned that stage."

Simon produces another cigarette from his pocket, now that they're out in the open, lighting it quickly. "Kris had a pitch problem, don't tell me you didn't notice."

"Seriously?" Randy asks incredulously. "You mean at the part where he was crying all over the place?"

Simon gives him a dry look. "That would be there, yes."

"Simon!" Paula moans, and she can't help it, she smacks his shoulder again.

Simon sighs. "Look, all right, you both know I think they're good, what do you want from me?"

"To _see_ them," she tries to convey, failing— "To be—Simon, they're _stars_. They're _supernovas_."

"Paula," he says pointedly, almost gently. Like he's saying she should know better, which—

Oh, _right_ , she remembers. Simon doesn't believe in stars. Stars aren't born; they are made. It is simultaneously one of the least romantic ways of looking at the word she knows of, and the most decidedly romantic: no one is truly outstanding, and everyone has the potential to be great. No, not everyone, she amends, but more than one would think; it's the idea that thousands of Matt Girauds are playing piano in bars across America right now, all equally talented and ripe for the picking for money-seeking producers; thousands of Adam Lamberts are performing tonight in inner city theaters, and thousands of Kris Allens and Danny Gokeys playing for their churches. That any one of the people who left the Verizon Wireless Arena with them and are pacing the streets all around could very actually be next year's Kris Allen or David Cook or Kelly Clarkson, and the only thing standing in between are three-hundred and sixty-five days, and Simon Cowell.

Well, fuck Simon Cowell. "Okay," Paula says, "I'm never going to win this argument with you anyway, so I'm not asking you to be star-struck, but _please_ , at the very least, just don't—don't harsh my buzz, you asshole."

"Ditto," Randy adds.

Simon directs his gaze heavenward. "Fine," he sighs heavily, like he's granting them a great gift or something. "I'll refrain from mentioning your American Idol's troubling pitch problems, or his runner up's ridiculously unfashionable hairstyle—not even Elvis wore it that high—or that tiring preaching that—"

"Simon," Paula laughs, tired but real, "you know that's not _it_ , those aren't the things that are going to make these kids huge."

"It doesn't mean they should be neglected."

"Simon," Paula says firmly, links her arm through his and hangs on like a schoolgirl. "Forget all of that. Did you _enjoy_ the concert tonight?"

Simon stubbornly stays silent long enough that Randy actually begins to chuckle, and finally, goddamn _finally_ , his mouth crooks up reluctantly. "It was fun," he concedes.

"Thank you!" She squeezes his arm giddily, just to watch him scowl again. Paula grins, and appropriates Randy's arm as well, and thinks that yeah, she's gonna miss these guys, but if she had to leave after eight seasons, _this_ was the season to go out on. "Now come on," she says, pulling them forward, sliding the corners of the feather boa between their arms. "You're buying me a drink."


End file.
